Spill Over

  Spill Over

  By

  Jolene Perry

  One

  Mom shuffles in the door of our apartment and by the sound of paper bags, she’s brought home food.

  “Need help?” My laptop’s on my lap, and my feet are stretched out on the coffee table. I click refresh on my email, just to make sure I don’t have anything new before jumping back into writing.

  “No, thanks, Antony. I got it.” She steps around the corner from our hole of a kitchen.

  Mom’s wide smile spreads across her angled face. She flicks her short, dark hair back as she walks into the room. “I brought Moroccan.”

  “Awesome.” I set my laptop on a chair, and clear my home school crap from the top of the coffee table, shoving it onto the shelf underneath. “What’s the occasion?”

  She hates picking up food, and they don’t deliver. It’s a shame, really. Almost every restaurant in New York delivers…well, except the ones I want to.

  She sets the large brown bag on the table and moves toward the kitchen, where we keep our coats. “No occasion. I got a assignment offer the other day that I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Mom comes around the corner, and flops back onto the couch. “When did my son get so grown up?” She ruffs my dark brown hair with her hand.

  “Last year. I think it was October.” I smirk. “And watch the hair.” I point and scoot away, but we’re both smiling. Looking into Mom’s dark brown eyes is like seeing my own. I look a lot like her—same hair, same angled face. Most guys might hate that, but I don’t mind.

  “Very funny.” Her hand reaches up and touches my hair more softly this time, playing with the ends. “You need a haircut.”

  The way she’s staring at me puts me on edge. “I do not need a cut. And since when do you care what I do with my hair?” I try to tease, but the intensity of her look keeps my chest pounding.

  Her smile falls.

  Yep. Something’s up.

  My stupid heart beats even harder, which sucks, cause it means something big’s about to happen.

  “Next assignment is in Africa.” She pulls her short legs up on the couch.

  I’m speechless. This isn’t a definite “Antony comes” kind of place. Mom has this idea that there are countries in the world that are safe enough for her, but not for me. I’m not sure yet which way this one’ll go. It sucks cause I almost always get to go.

  Mom’s worked on the Today show forever, but she also does stuff for the other news networks in the same media group. She’s on TV often, but has the cool advantage of traveling all over the world. I get to follow most of the time—hence the home schooling and tutors.

  “Cool, how long will we be there?” I ask, even though part of me is just waiting for her to—

  “I’m going alone.” Her shoulders fall.

  Dread edges its way into my gut, creating a black pit that weighs me down.

  She turns to face me, bringing a knee to her chest. Whatever’s coming, I know I’m not going to like it. This is one of those moments when I wish I could stop time or something, or maybe jump ahead—that might work too. Anything to avoid what she’s about to say.

  “Look, I know you barely know your father…”

  My dad? What on earth could he have to do with this? Oh. Wait. “No, no no no no.” I shake my head. “He’s like, I mean…we’re not…” No way would she send me there without her. Would she? But the weight in my stomach just doubled in weight and size.

  “He’s a good man, Antony.” She’s using her mom-voice. One she doesn’t pull out often.

  “That’s…in dispute.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. Dad bailed about the time Mom was picked up by NBC. I was three. Who does that?

  My stupid heart keeps sending me the same message—told ya this was big.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “That, is not in dispute. Your dad has always been a good man.”

  “Right, which is why you two stayed together for so long.” I can feel it coming. Feel it. It’s just not like her to make big decisions without talking to me.

  “We were very different.”

  “Yeah. And I’m like you.” And want to be like you. No one has a cooler Mom than me. Every time a musical guest comes on she knows I like, she’ll bring me to work. And it’s never—this is my cute little boy, stuff. It’s like Hey, this is Antony. He knows New York better than anyone, so if you need any help getting around, he’s your man.

  “And I love that you’re like me.” She kisses my forehead. This means its bad, because she feels bad. “But you should know the other half of your parentage.”

  “My parentage?” I stare. “But that’s not it, Mom. He’s weird. He lives on a boat! And not like a huge boat, either.”

  “It will only be for three months or so.”

  “Three months!” This is crazy. Panic starts to set in. Spending three months on a boat with my weirdo father sounds like torture. Every nerve is precariously balanced on the edge of some sort of cataclysmic abyss. “I’ve been to Africa before. Why is this so different?”

  We sit and look at one another for a moment. I’m not sure if she’s trying to think of something to say, or if she’s trying to remember something she has prepared. Either way it sucks.

  “It’s dangerous, Antony. I don’t want you there. You know this. You don’t always get to come. I need to concentrate on what I’m doing.” Both her feet hit the floor as she turns to the coffee table, and begins to pull out boxes of food. The smell of spices further fills the living room.

  “If it’s too dangerous for me, it’s too dangerous for you.” I fold my arms. This is serious, and now she’s avoiding the conversation by dishing up.

  I’m trying to think of everyone I know, anyone who can keep me from having to spend three months with my dad. On a boat. The whole idea is so crazy that part of me is sure it can’t be real.

  It’s a fine balance in my life to know the right people, say the right things, and Dad doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get me, my friends, my clothes, New York. None of it. He couldn’t handle living here—not even for me.

  Why should I have to live there?

  “It’s not just that. I feel like I’ve done you a disservice by not pushing you harder to spend time with him.” Forks get pulled from plastic. “You’re almost eighteen and have never spent any real time together.” Plates are being dished. She finally stops messing with boxes and food to look at me. “He misses you.”

  “I don’t care.” I shake my head. “I don’t really want to spend time with him.” A ten-minute phone call is awkward enough, but months? I can’t even imagine that. Don’t want to imagine it. Definitely don’t want to live it. She knows this. It’s not like her to force something I don’t want.

  “He’s a good man, Antony. I loved him a lot. It was just…” Her shoulders start to shrug, but just stop at the top instead of relaxing back down.

  “It wasn’t enough to counteract how weird he is!” How is something like this happening?

  And I’m not completely freaking out, because in my mind, until my feet are on the deck of his boat, there’s still a chance for something else to happen.

  She laughs. Laughs! “I know it feels like an eternity right now, but it won’t feel that way for long. Three months is nothing.”

  Nothing. Nothing.

  Right.

  I don’t buy it, not for a second. Besides, there has to be loads of other options. Which gives me the perfect idea.

  “What about Arnaud? I could stay with him in Paris for a while.” Arnaud is a little eccentric, but not a bad guy. I stayed w
ith him the last time Mom left me home. He and Mom dated for a short while, and they still get together when we go to Paris. I could probably do whatever I wanted. And Hélèna’s there. I mean, we’re never exactly on, but we’re never exactly off either, and three months in the proximity of her legs sounds pretty awesome. Amazing. Perfect.

  Mom’s brows go up. “Uh… nice try. No way you’re spending that much time with Arnaud. We both remember what happened last time.”

  I should’ve known better. Last time ended in my first and last experience with cocaine (offered by Arnaud—which I’m sure is where the disagreement came from) as well as my first sleep over with a girl—Hélèna. Arnaud was proud. Mom was most definitely not.

  “But David, or Trace, or Finn, or—” Who else do I know that lives close?

  She pushes out a breath. “Sorry, Antony. It’s settled. I know there are other places you’d rather stay, but I think it’s important you spend time with your dad.”

  Settled—like the weight in my gut. The only argument left is begging, or guilt, or a mix of the two. “Mom, we’ve always talked things through first. I think it’s worked really well.”

  Her face begins to soften.

  “We’ve made decisions together for a long time. Am I making you crazy or something? I’m a little behind in Trig, but it won’t take long to catch up. Phil said he’d meet with me tomorrow if I want.” Can I sound desperate enough for this to not happen? Because I’m feeling pretty desperate right now.

  “Having you in Darfur terrifies me Antony.” Now she looks vulnerable. This is the face I can’t argue against.

  “Then I don’t want you there.” But I already know how this argument goes. She’s an adult. She’s the one in the middle of cameras and security, and she can’t keep track of me when she’s working. We’ve had the run-around before, and we both know how it ends.

  Her face closes off. I know before she speaks that I’ve lost. It just seems too horrible to think about. “Sorry. I did tell your dad that you needed to be able to keep with your home school. He was going to register you for spring semester.”

  “What?” My head snaps back to Mom. “Like public school?” I’ve heard horrors. I’m not about to go there.

  Mom laughs. “You know, I went to a public school, and I think I did okay for myself.”

  I can tell by the tease in her voice that we’re still okay. But how okay am I? How will I get along with a guy who wears Costco jeans and thinks it’s cool to live on a boat?

  Her hand rests on my knee. “I love you Antony, but this is a big opportunity for me to do the kind of journalism that at the end of the day, really means something. Will hopefully bring attention to an area of the world that’s in desperate need of aid. I know you don’t want to spend the time with your dad, and I’ve let you avoid him for way too long. I’ve had guilt over that for a lot of years. He asks about you a lot, you know.”

  I nod. Mom always tells me when Dad’s sends her an email, or when they talk. It happens often, even though Dad and I don’t talk all that much. Mom knows how uncomfortable it is for me, which makes me even more frustrated over what’s happening now.

  Dread isn’t creeping in, it’s taking over. This is insane. I belong with Mom. I belong in New York. These are my people. This is who I am.

  “If it were somewhere else, I’d bring you, but this is an opportunity for both of us.” Her voice has the soft seriousness that lets me know she sort of gets it, but we’re doing it anyway.

  “I could stay here. I’m almost eighteen. People leave for college when they’re eighteen. It happens all the time.” I can’t even force hope into my voice, because I can tell it’s decided.

  “Love you, son.” She wraps her small arms around me. “I’ll be back before your birthday. It’ll go by so fast. I promise.”

  I chuckle. “You can promise no such thing. Just, be safe, okay?”

  “That, I can promise.” She has to lean up to kiss my cheek.

  And this is going to suck, but it is what it is. Seattle’s not a bad city. A bit cold and rainy in January, but I can deal with that. It’s my dad and the boat that I’m worried about.

  Two

  It’s raining. Of course it’s raining. I’m in Seattle. What else would it do here? My hair gets all weird and curly in this weather. It makes me crazy. My friend, David, would harass me to no end over it, but mostly cause he’s obsessed with his.

  I walk slowly through the halls of the airport, unwilling to move as quickly as the people around me. I don’t know what Dad and I are going to talk about on the drive to his boat, much less for the next few months.

  This sucks. Maybe we can boat up to Canada or something. I laugh. That’s probably about as international as Dad gets. These three months will be an eternity.

  The more I think about it, the more I feel dumped here. Mom keeps telling me I’m spoiled. I keep insisting I’m not. She probably thinks this’ll be one of those life-changing experiences, when I’m already one of the nice guys. And the only good thing I can imagine coming from this is Mom feeling really guilty about leaving me here when she gets home. Guilt can go a long way—I still might get Paris for my birthday. She said she’d be back in time.

  Baggage claim in the public airport is ridiculous. I can’t remember the last time I flew commercial, but Mom wasn’t with me, and I’m guessing part of her thought it would be pretentious of me to make Dad go to the private airport. So, apparently a half hour of his discomfort is worth a seven-hour flight of my discomfort. See? Dumped.

  I’m not even looking for Dad. Part of me hopes he doesn’t show. Then I could grab my bag and my passport and head to Paris. Mom and Arnaud may have had another falling out, but Arnaud and I haven’t. We get along great. He’s younger than Mom, I’m younger than him, and I think he likes dragging me around. Makes him feel younger. So, all I need to wish for is that Dad won’t—

  “Antony?” Dad’s gravelly voice booms out behind me.

  I cringe, and almost wish I could disappear, because really? Do we have to yell?

  I turn to face him. My dad. His light brown beard now has a few grey hairs. It’s not a nice, neat trim, beard. It’s the kind of beard I’d expect to see on a guy who lives on a boat, grows his own tomatoes at a community garden, and drinks organic beer. His black-rimmed glasses look like something from 1968. He’s wearing a rain jacket, worn jeans and his dirty, white canvas boat shoes. Of course. Because why would you wear anything else?

  “Hey, Dad.” I keep my voice low. Appropriate.

  He walks through the edges of people hovering around the carousel. But when he stops in front of me, I’m not sure what to do. Do we hug? Shake? I think it’s been more than two years—he’s a stranger.

  I don’t have any more time to think about it. He grabs me in a tight hug. I pat his back, holding my backpack with my laptop, iPad, iPod, phone, and camera off to the side. No need to smash those things together. The reality that I’m actually going to be stuck here for a while, works its way through me. I hate feeling betrayed by Mom like this.

  “You look exactly like your mom.” He’s staring at me as he pulls away. Dad and I are the same height now—an even six feet. I’m kinda proud of that. Dad’s a bit broader than me, but he looks trim, healthy, as always.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We get that a lot.”

  “So, you must be like, seventeen now?” he asks, adjusting his dark glasses.

  He’s my dad. Shouldn’t he know stuff like this? My birthday is one of the for-sure call days from him. “Yep. Seventeen.” And I’m so close to the magic eighteen.

  “You have a driver’s license, right?” His hands rest comfortably in his dirty jeans.

  “Yeah.” Of course. Who gets to seventeen without bothering to get a license?

  “I only asked because I know you’ll want to have some freedom, and you live in New York and a lot of peop
le don’t bother with cars and—”

  “Mom can afford a car.” I let out a breath. My life is completely foreign to him. He doesn’t get it at all. Or me. “There’s one of my bags.” I step forward and heft the case to the floor.

  “One of your bags? How much did you bring?” He chuckles.

  “I’m apparently here for three months, Dad. I need my stuff.” My textbooks are in there, my clothes, some shoes. I couldn’t bring nearly what I wanted to. Shipping wasn’t an issue. Mom informed me that space would be the issue. Because I’ll be living on a boat. And not a Jay-Z/Tiger Woods kind of boat. A sailboat. “There’s only two.”

  “And the one on your back.” He points.

  Obviously. But I keep my mouth shut and stare at the carousel to wait for my other bag to come down. I’m still sort of in disbelief that this is actually happening.

  - - -

  Dad no longer keeps his boat on the Seattle side of Puget Sound. Too busy, he says. The drive takes us an excruciating hour and a half of awkward questions and silences.

  We pull up in a small…town? If I can call it that. A grocery store, lots of trees, a few houses, a couple of gas stations, and restaurants where I’d be more worried about the cleanliness of the table than the quality of food. The quality of the food would be pretty obvious by the exterior. Oh, and a Starbucks, I forget how this spot of the world needs Starbucks everywhere.

  If I’m being honest with myself, I’m feeling a bit lost here, but the survival part kicks in, and wonders why on earth I need to be stuck.

  “Here we are.” He pulls his Prius into a parking space and the dim light of evening, and the rain, all add to the dreariness of the place. It’s a boat harbor. Nothing special or exciting. Blue metal roofs and thick wooden pilings surround row after row of average looking boats. Nothing here’s even close to Matt Lauer’s boat. In my opinion no one should even attempt to live on something smaller than his.

  I’m stunned into silence, and going sort of numb. Here’s where part of me wants to run at the mouth, like Mom would say, but I don’t. I’m smarter than that. The insanity of living on a boat, in this podunk little town, somewhere that’s always raining…If you’re going to live on a boat, why wouldn’t you do it somewhere like the Virgin Islands? That I could see. Three months of warm water and sand would be something to look forward to.